


The Twelfth Day Of Christmas

by UniverseOnHerShoulders



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Christmas Party, F/M, Fluff, Mistletoe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-24
Updated: 2017-12-24
Packaged: 2019-02-10 16:02:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12915324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UniverseOnHerShoulders/pseuds/UniverseOnHerShoulders
Summary: Clara Oswald, Christmas parties, and champagne. A potentially lethal cocktail, at least as far as one particular Time Lord is concerned...





	The Twelfth Day Of Christmas

**Author's Note:**

> Another year, another Christmas fic...! This is my Whouffaldi Secret Santa gift for shadowkeeper17, I hope everyone enjoys it, and has a very merry Christmas! (Yes I know it's early, but I figured we all need this before the regeneration.)

Clara Oswald was not, by and large, the kind of woman to enjoy a work Christmas party. The music was always terrible, there was always a slightly skeevy bloke who couldn’t keep his hands to himself and, in the case of parties with free bars, there was always a 100 per cent chance of her getting pissed and copping off with someone wildly inappropriate, which made the ensuing weeks of co-working staggeringly awkward. Last year, that had been one of the science teachers — the weird one, who had buggered off back to Sheffield, or wherever she’d come from — and it hadn’t so much been copping off so much as a quick fumble around the back of the venue, followed by two solid months of eye-poppingly awkward staff meetings. The year before… well, she tried not to think about the year before, with Danny dressed in a Santa outfit he bought off eBay, because she’d made a promise to him and to the Doctor and she wasn’t about to break it now. Especially not since she’d spent actual money on an actual new dress for this really quite shite party that she’d been dragged to more or less against her will. Because the only thing worse than having to attend one work Christmas party was having to attend two.

 _“Please,” the Doctor had asked some weeks prior, his hair askew following a run in with giant mice, and his eyes wide with a pleading desperation Clara was trying very, very hard to ignore. “It’ll be fun.”_

_“Why do UNIT even have a Christmas party?” she’d protested. “They’re a serious scientific-slash-military organisation.”_

_“Well, they need to let their hair down once in a while. You should’ve seen Kate’s dad in the seventies… no, eighties… I forget. Anyway, you should’ve-”_

_“Why are_ you _invited?”_

 _“Because I work for them!” He’d look affronted then, and smoothed down his hair in a decidedly cat-like manner._

_“Do you have a desk yet?” she’d teased. “Or are they still big on drugging you and carting you off to places?”_

_“Shut up.”_

_“You’re not going to wake up and find they’ve dragged you off to Shagaluf and tattooed “I heart science” on your genitals, are you?”_

_“Where on earth is ‘Shagaluf’?”_

_“Doesn’t matter. Why are you inviting me?”_

_“Because I get to take a plus one, and you’re my de facto plus one.”_

_Clara’s heart had skipped a beat then. The raw sincerity of his words, coupled with the casual, assumptive manner in which he said them, was enough to give her a warm feeling in her chest._

_“Am I?” she’d managed, in a slightly breathless tone._

_“Of course you are,” he’d looked a little put out. “Aren’t you?”_

_“If you want me to be.”_

_“I do,” he’d grinned cheekily then. “Besides, you technically work for them, too.”_

_“They’ve technically wiped my mind a few times, you mean?”_

_“Well, exactly. The least they can do is give you free alcohol.”_

And so, here she was: alone in an overly-swanky London venue, garbed in a wholly impractical backless dress that had already short-circuited the brains of at least five nerdy male scientists — and Osgood, although Clara wasn’t sure what to make of _that_ — and, by and large, rather bored. The Doctor had disappeared off somewhere with Kate what felt like hours earlier, and now Clara was cold, and pissed off, and not drunk enough to deal well with either of the above. 

“Fuck it,” she muttered under her breath, snagging a glass of champagne from a passing — suspiciously blank-eyed — waiter and downing it in one. If the Doctor wasn’t keen on playing the gracious host, he shouldn’t have invited her, and she wouldn’t have bought this overpriced dress because she wouldn’t have been trying to attract his attention. Well. Attract his attention in a manner that didn’t involve him worrying about her dying, losing a limb, or in any way coming to harm. It didn’t seem to be working. There was always the possibility that she could lie that she was losing sensation in her back due to an attack by teeny tiny aliens, but then there would probably be an awful lot of scanning, and fussing, and not nearly enough of what she was actually hoping for, which was a snog. It wasn’t like she’d been waiting several years for just _one_ kiss under the mistletoe. It wasn’t like she actively spent the festive period trying to work out the logistics of snogging a Time Lord who was a good ten inches taller than her or anything. 

 _Heh._ Ten inches.

OK, that wasn’t a good thought to focus on. Another glass of champagne was probably an idea, and then maybe she’d consider wandering off in search of her errant Time Lord. Well. Not _hers_ , but decidedly more hers than anyone else in this room. There was a brief, intrusive thought about the Doctor and Kate, but Clara shuddered, reminded herself of all the Doctor’s tales of babysitting UNIT’s now-Chief Scientific Officer, and tried to focus on something else. Like this glass of — admittedly lukewarm — champagne. 

Osgood sidled over some minutes later, as Clara was looking around for somewhere to deposit her empty glass. 

“Hello,” the for once un-bespectacled woman said nervously, teeth worrying at her lower lip, which was stained a dark shade of crimson. “Sorry about earlier. I’m rubbish at socialising with pretty people before I’ve had a glass of anything alcoholic.” 

“‘Pretty people’?” Clara cocked an eyebrow, feeling her cheeks turn pink with pleasure. “Well, now. You don’t usually have this problem, though.” 

“I mean,” Osgood looked a touch embarrassed, shuffling from foot to foot. “You always look pretty and I thought I was used to that, but then you wore that dress which is like, wow, and urm…” 

“Osgood,” a rich Scottish voice hummed from behind them, and before Clara could turn around, the Doctor’s hand was on the small of her back. It was only a casual touch, but it was enough to send electricity shooting up her spine, and she fought to keep her breathing even as he moved to stand beside her, keeping his hand there and seeming blissfully unaware of the effect his cool palm against her bare skin was having. “I do hope you’re not chatting up my companion.” 

“I…” Osgood turned a spectacular shade of maroon. “No… I ah… I’m… urm… oh, I hear Kate calling me.” 

The embarrassed-looking brunette shot off at high speed, and the Doctor chuckled. “You mustn’t mind her,” he explained in a fond tone. “She’s rather nervous at social events to start with, but alcohol tends to make her loquacious.” 

“It’s alright,” Clara squeaked, then added in the most casual tone she could manage: “Where did you vanish off to?” 

“Oh, Kate wanted to talk shop,” he grimaced. “I got away as fast as I could. Wanted to borrow you for a minute, if that’s alright.” 

“S-sure.” 

“Are you OK?” the Doctor stepped away, removing the physical contact that had been so maddeningly teasing, and Clara swayed towards him automatically. “Hey, easy now. How much champagne have you had?” 

“Not a lot,” she scowled half-heartedly. “Are you borrowing me, or what?” 

“Oh, yes,” he took her hand with a casualness that never ceased to amaze her, especially after those awkward first few months with an absence of and an aversion to touch. “Come on, wanna show you something.” 

Clara allowed herself to be led out of the main reception room, along a corridor, and up a flight of stairs. The Doctor pushed through a heavy metal door, and then they were on a small roof terrace, the city of London illuminated before them by a pure-white full moon that seemed close enough to touch. Benches draped in fur blankets formed a circle around a log-stocked but unlit fire pit, and, overhead, a pergola was wreathed in winter foliage; a myriad of gold and green and red in keeping with the season.

“Wow,” Clara breathed, as the Doctor whipped out the sonic sunglasses and waved them in the general direction of the fire pit, the logs bursting into flames by way of response and beginning to crackle merrily. “This is… cute.” 

“I don’t think anyone downstairs even knows it exists.” 

“So, how do you?” 

“I came up here after I spoke to Kate. Just… needed to see the stars. I know, I’m a terrible cliché.” 

“It’s London,” Clara sank onto a bench and wrinkled her nose. “I don’t think you _can_ see any stars, what with all the light pollution.” 

“That’s where you’re wrong,” the Doctor sank down beside her, warming his hands on the fire, and Clara was struck with a sudden recollection of Trenzalore, and another Doctor, and another fire. She shivered at the memory. “Sorry, I didn’t…” 

Before she could protest, he had shrugged off his velvet jacket and draped it over her shoulders, the heavy fabric settling over her reassuringly. Slipping her arms through the sleeves, which were so long that they covered her hands, she grinned. “Thanks,” she mumbled, touched by the gesture. “But I wasn’t cold.” 

“You’re human.” 

“Yes?” 

“You get cold. And I don’t want my human to be cold.” 

“ _Your_ human?” 

“My companion,” he cleared his throat, dropping his gaze and looking mortified. “You know what I meant.” 

“Do I?” 

“Look, I was going to show you the stars.” 

“Sorry,” she bit her lip in contrition. “Go on.” 

Taking the sunglasses off his lap, the Doctor leaned over and gently placed them on her face, adjusting them on her nose to ensure they wouldn’t slip. Apparently satisfied, he pressed his finger to the bridge, and then tilted Clara’s chin up towards the sky with a tender hand. “There.” 

Clara gasped. Despite the city’s light, she could see the stars. More stars than any Londoner had ever seen; more than she had ever seen from anywhere on Earth. There were thousands, spilling across the field of her vision in familiar and unfamiliar patterns that took her breath away, and she could identify the burning of galaxies in the middle distance, their sprawling clusters of brilliance enough to dazzle her. 

Turning her head back towards the Doctor to thank him, her gaze tracked across the foliage-clad pergola. Nestled in the depths of the arrangement of pine and holly and ivy, the specs picked up on a tiny bunch of white berries, and Clara knew what it was even before the helpful label flashed up onscreen. 

 _Viscum album._

_Mistletoe._  

“It’s beautiful,” she managed, lifting the glasses and propping them on top of her head. “Thank you.” 

“You’re welcome.” 

“You know what else is beautiful?” 

“N-” was all the Doctor managed before she took hold of the front of his shirt and pulled him towards her, her lips meeting his and rendering him silent. She kissed him until she couldn’t think; until the universe constricted to the two of them on a rooftop in London; until she ran out of air; and then and only then did she pull away, dropping her gaze to her lap. 

“I… you… we… urm…” he stammered. “I don’t think… we urm… men can’t be… I’m not… beautiful…” 

“Of course you are,” she felt abruptly shy. Even though she’d known — and loved — this man for almost half a decade, she was suddenly too embarrassed to so much as look at him. “To me, you are.” 

“Clara,” he said gently, and somehow that was worse than the uncertain tripping over words. “I think… I think you’ve had a bit to drink.” 

“What?” her head snapped up and she met his gaze, her eyes burning into his with a ferocity that visibly disconcerted him. “What do you mean?” 

“I think the champagne is causing you to make bad choices.” 

“Oh yes,” she snapped, knowing that her tone was bitter, but not caring. “Silly little Clara Oswald, can’t handle her drink, snogs a Time Lord after two glasses of champagne.”

“Clara…”

“What? You really think I’m that much of a lightweight? You really think you’re that bloody awful that the only way I could want you is when I’m drunk?” 

“Well, yes,” he cleared his throat and hastily added. “To the latter.”

“Well, you’re not!” she all but shouted, yanking off his jacket and the sonic specs and striding over to the balustrade that encircled the edge of the roof. “God, I thought you… I really thought maybe you might want this, but I see now I made a stupid mistake.” 

“Clara!” 

“What? Go on, make some stupid comment about how you’re old enough to be my messiah, or something like that. Go ahead and just… destroy everything we’ve built up together!” 

“Clara, I don’t… I don’t understand, why are you angry?” 

“‘Every Christmas is last Christmas,’” she scoffed. Despite the anger and adrenaline burning through her system, she shivered in the chill December air. “So, drawing on that, you know, I thought maybe this Christmas I could do what I’ve been thinking about for the last god knows how many. I thought maybe you might actually want to do that. But I was wrong. Stupid little Clara. Useless, idiotic human.” 

“Clara,” his voice was low and surprised. “Have you really?” 

“Really what?” 

“Wanted to kiss me for that long?” 

“No,” she lied sulkily, then looked over and saw the raw emotion in his eyes. “Yes. Maybe.” 

“You’re shaking,” he said quietly, patting the seat beside him. “Come here.” 

“I’m angry. I’m angry shaking.” 

“You’re _cold._ I recognise your physiological reflexes; come _here,_ before you get frostbite.” 

Reluctantly, Clara circled the fire and plonked herself down beside him, leaving a decent amount of space between herself and the guilty-looking Time Lord. The Doctor sighed, reaching for his jacket and draping it around her once more, and she wanted to shrug it off, to be petty and cast it aside, but the cold was unrelenting and so she drew it around herself with a trembling hand. 

“Thanks,” she muttered, looking down at her lap and tugging the hem of her dress down. “Sorry.” 

“For what?” 

“Deluding myself.” 

“Clara,” he said gently, reaching over and taking her hand in his. “You aren’t.” 

She flinched away from his touch, looking at him with incredulity. “Don’t,” she snapped, her eyes filling with tears. “Don’t try and do this. Don’t lie to me because you think it’s what I want to hear.” 

“You really think I care for you that little?” he raised an eyebrow. “You really think I have so little respect for you that I would lie to you about this?” 

“How should I know what the Time Lord Superior thinks?” 

He sighed. “Look. I brought you up here to give you something.”

“Is it a notice of redundancy? ‘The post of companion is currently undergoing development’?” 

“No,” he rolled his eyes in fond exasperation. “It’s a Christmas present.” 

“Right.” 

He reached into his pocket and drew out something small, holding it in his fist. “Urm,” he said awkwardly. “Sorry it’s not wrapped, I’m not very good at it. Hold out your hand.” 

Warily, Clara extended her free hand, her palm held out flat and her fingers tucked in. The Doctor deposited the tiny item, and when he moved away, Clara gasped. 

“But that’s…” she began, looking at him in open-mouthed shock. “How did you…” 

Nestled against the whorls of her palm was her mother’s first engagement ring. It had been lost, many years ago, on a family trip to the beach that had culminated with a mass search of the sands, before Clara’s entire family had resigned themselves to the ring’s loss with a sadness that had been almost tangible. Her dad had bought a replacement, of course, but it had none of the sentimental value of the original, and her mother had mourned for the lost item of jewellery in her final days. 

“Turned the whole beach over,” the Doctor said, rubbing the back of his neck in embarrassment. “When everyone had gone home. Might’ve used the sonic to resonate some of the molecules a bit, which helped.” 

“But I…” 

“You mentioned it, ages ago. And you seemed really sad, and I don’t like you being sad, so I thought… well. Yeah. Happy Christmas.” 

“Just to be clear,” Clara asked in a teasing tone, aiming for levity in an attempt to prevent herself from crying. “You’re giving me a ring?”

“Yes,” the Doctor concurred, then caught her meaning. “Wait, no! Not like _that_! It’s just… it’s a ring, but it’s not _a ring_ …” 

“I’m just teasing,” she murmured, slipping it onto her middle finger before scooting closer to him. “It’s beautiful. Thank you.” 

“I just wanted to do something nice to make you happy.” 

“Why?” 

“Because I care.” 

Clara understood, in that moment, that this was it. This was his clumsy way of saying what she had wanted him to say for years, and indeed, he _had_ been saying it for years… just not in the overt way she had envisaged. 

“Thank you,” she whispered, and before he could say anything else or go off on any tangents, she kissed him again. This time one of his hands came to rest on her waist, the other cupping her cheek, and he held her to him like she was made of glass as she closed her eyes and lost herself to the moment. When she felt herself growing short of breath, she pulled away with the utmost reluctance and buried her face in his neck, grinning shyly and winding her arms around his shoulders. 

“So, to be clear,” she mumbled. “You’re not snogging me because you’ve had any champagne?” 

He chuckled, as she’d intended. “Definitely not.” 

“And so we’re on the same page, that’s not why I’m snogging you either.” 

“Understood.” 

“And we’re going to go downstairs now holding hands.” 

“Are we?” 

“Yes,” she said decisively, getting to her feet and holding out her hand to him. “We are.” 

“Why?” 

“Because it’s Christmas,” she shrugged. “And every Christmas is last Christmas.”

The Doctor took her hand and got to his feet, grinning. “Can I have my coat back?” 

“Not a chance.” 

“Are you going to steal all of my clothes?” 

“Only the nice ones. So, no.” 

He rolled his eyes fondly as she meshed her fingers through his and led him back downstairs. “People are going to stare, you know.” 

“I do.” 

“And gossip.” 

“I know.” 

“And?” 

“And, I don’t care,” she grinned, pausing outside the entrance to the main room and going up on tiptoes to kiss him quickly. “Let them.” 

She dragged him inside before he could complain, and an immediate hush fell over the room as conversations ceased and all eyes turned to the human and Time Lord and their clasped hands. The Doctor cleared his throat a touch awkwardly and then edged a little closer to Clara, slipping his arm around her waist in an action that was both tender and also, she suspected, a touch smug. The silence was broken by Kate’s voice. 

“It’s about bloody time. Osgood, you owe me twenty quid.”


End file.
